


And It's Hard to Love

by caelystrae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Porn with Feelings, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 11:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16325081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelystrae/pseuds/caelystrae
Summary: Maybe that is why Ana is afraid, when Angela says I love you, because once, she might have been falling in love with Angela, might even have begun to consider what that would mean for the both of them to talk about their relationship openly, despite the consequences, to refuse propositions not because there was someone else already meeting her needs adequately, and breaking in new lovers could be a hassle, but because she only wanted one person—and despite beginning to feel that way, things between them still soured, were victim to the outside stresses of Overwatch’s collapse, until rather than feeling comfortable, Ana felt trapped.  It scares her, to think that she could have loved Angela, then, and still run, and terrifies her to think that it might happen again.Or,Angela accidentally says "I love you" during sex, and Ana is not at all prepared to deal with that.





	And It's Hard to Love

**Author's Note:**

> this is the second fic i wrote for this prompt bc i decided to scrap the first one (like 4 hours ago lol) and rewrite it. but then i didnt really like this one that much either. oh well im out of time so. let ana fuck week day three: love/hate

In her life, Ana has known war, but she has rarely experienced peace, she has known freedom, but rarely seen justice, and she has known hate, but she does not know, not for certain, if she has ever felt love.  Of course, she loves her daughter, loves her friends, loves her duty, her country, her people—but that is not the same as feeling romantic love, not at all, and Ana is content with that, with what she has had, does not think that she needs to ever be _in love_ with someone to be happy with the life she has led, the things she has accomplished.  Out of all of her regrets, never having been in love is not worth even mentioning.

Most of Ana’s relationships have been purely physical, because she alternately lacks the time, the desire, or the stability to search for love.  While she acknowledges that there have been a few exceptions, they have been relationships built on friendship, or admiration, not love.  Sam was such a one, and for a time she believed Angela was another—and now, she must face that that is not necessarily the case.

Coming back from the dead changed many things, but it was only the catalyst for a change that was a long time coming before her death, that continues even now that she is four months returned.

Perhaps it would be an overstatement to say that, in the years before her death, she and Angela admired each other; it was admiration that brought them to one another, yes, recognition of some kindred spirit, a mutual drive, a need to protect and a willingness to do so by whatever means they deemed necessary, but that did not last.  Towards the end of their time together, towards the end of Overwatch, towards the end of _Ana_ , or the Ana who was never the Shrike, they fought more often than not, found that agreeing to do whatever was necessary only went so far, when the two of them disagreed on what, in fact, was a necessity, and Ana struggles when thinking of the things that they said to one another, that they must have thought about one another, to say that she felt admiration, or that Angela could have felt the same.

She never hated Angela, this much Ana knows, but sometimes, sometimes she was afraid that she might grow to. 

When they fought, they never held anything back—perhaps because of the admiration they felt for one another, in the early days, because they knew the other could take hearing what it was they were to say, or perhaps because their arguments were complicated by other feelings, ones they chose not to give voice to—and Ana winces, now, remembering the things the two of them said to one another.  It was a stressful time, Overwatch’s fall, for the both of them, made harder still that they both felt increasingly isolated and embattled in their respective positions, between the development of the Biotic Rifle and Jack and Gabe’s decision to slowly freeze Ana out of the chain of command, but that stress could not excuse the things they both allowed themselves to say, and it is not an easy time for Ana to remember.

(Ana feels similarly about the breakdown in her relationship with her daughter, but that was easy to make sense of, after the fact, and she knows, now, where the two of them stand, even if it is not always easy between them.  They had blood and a lifetime of love between them; the same cannot be said for how she feels about Angela.)

To say, therefore, that Angela’s response to her return was unexpected, then, would be an understatement.

What Ana expected, upon her return, was anger, was betrayal, was a condemnation.  Instead, she received none of those things—or, she did, eventually, in conversations about the rifle, about her leaving, but never were they such simple feelings from Angela, and never were the conversations themselves as fraught as the ones from seven years before.  It is impossible to judge for Ana, what it is that Angela is feeling, when she voices her betrayal at Ana for having had the audacity to _die_ on her, only to come back as if nothing had happened, because Ana knows that Angela _ought_ to be furious with her, would have said things meant to hurt, if this happened years ago, and instead she is also unmistakably _relieved_ by Ana’s returning, and that relief tempers her anger.

This, in turn, ought to make Ana happy, she ought to be relieved at this turn of events, by the fact that, somehow, they have both of them changed, and grown, and returned to one another more able, or perhaps more willing, to disagree, and to set those disagreements aside, in order to be happy together, or as close to it as they can come.  What Ana feels, instead of relief, is worry.  Nothing in her life has ever been so simple, and the lack of a clean resolution to their prior conflicts, the lack of confirmation that that is behind them, the unaddressed feelings and hurts, they haunt her.

Angela says she loves her. 

What to make of that?  It is the opposite reaction from what Ana expected, upon returning, and Ana is not sure that she would be able to believe it, even were that not the case.  How could Angela love her?  After she left, _died_ , Angela’s greatest fear, after she betrayed her lover, taking the Biotic Rifle with her, despite knowing that it represented the greatest perversion of Angela’s life’s work, after what she said to Angela, how could Angela love her?

How could Angela love her, when she struggles to love herself?  Knowing what she has done in the name of duty—what of that she regrets, what of that was not truly necessary, and having seen the nastier parts of herself, knowing whom she truly is: a killer, and not a protector.  There is little enough of her left to love, anyway, after what happened, after her death and the Shrike.  How could anyone love her?

How could Angela love her, when seven years ago they could hardly speak to one another, were too often too angry to be civil, and were avoiding each other more often than not, lest they begin another argument, unable for the first time to set professional differences apart for the sake of their relationship—whatever one might have defined it as? 

(Perhaps, if she asked Angela, Angela might tell her that she felt love, even then, and that is why the perceived betrayal of the development of the Biotic Rifle hurt her so much.  Perhaps she might try to convince Ana that Ana, too, loved her, and that was why Ana was willing to argue about it at all, rather than simply dismissing her disagreement, wanting instead for Angela to come to approve or, at the least, not be angry with her any longer for what she had chosen to do.  Perhaps she might claim that Ana’s death put the issue into perspective for her, and she realized that she had feelings all along.  Perhaps—it does not matter.)

Ana worries about what it would mean to love Angela, given that there is still so much between them unsaid, unresolved.  One of the reasons why the idea of being in love has never appealed to Ana is that its seems terribly complicated, and her life is difficult enough already without such added concerns, and their situation has more unique challenges than most.

Yet, despite all of this, there are times when loving Angela seems like it could be so very easy to do. 

When she wakes in the morning to find Angela curled around her, and her lover kisses her temple in lieu of a greeting before slipping out of bed to prepare for the day, she wonders what it might be like to wake to this every morning, thinks it might be worth suffering Angela kicking the blankets off of both of them in her sleep.  Perhaps that is not love, but it is a desire for permanence, one she could not imagine herself feeling seven years ago when all she wanted was to _run_.

When Angela glances around the common room nervously to ensure they are alone before shifting closer to Ana on the couch, and wrapping their hands around one another, Ana considers for the first time whether or not it would be so terrible to allow others to see them like this, despite the uncomfortable questions it might invite about the nature of their relationship before Overwatch fell.  This, too, might not be love, but it is a growing comfort with casual intimacy that Ana might once have avoided, for fear of what it might mean.

When they find themselves where they are now, Angela straddling her thighs in a position that allows them both to, with a bit of awkward bumping into one another at first, reach down and touch each other simultaneously, all the while maintaining eye contact and kissing one another as they please, Ana wonders what lead them to this point.

Their relationship was never meant to last, was not—is not—a relationship, was meant to be a casual mutual pursuit of much needed stress relief, an exchange of power and of favors.  When one of them had a particularly rough day, they could meet one another by cover of darkness and—deal with the problem, in their own way, Angela allowing Ana to once again feel in control of her life and its circumstances, and Ana freeing Angela from that same burden; that is not the basis for love, or was never meant to be.  Over time, things shifted, grew more complicated, until even meeting with Angela felt stressful, and all Ana wanted was to get _away_ from everyone, herself included, to be free of all of her obligations, even caring for her lover, and yet, here she is, one of Angela’s lips pressed to hers, and two of her fingers inside her erstwhile lover. 

(Maybe that is why Ana is afraid, when Angela says _I love you_ , because once, she might have been falling in love with Angela, might even have begun to consider what that would mean for the both of them to talk about their relationship openly, despite the consequences, to refuse propositions not because there was someone else already meeting her needs adequately, and breaking in new lovers could be a hassle, but because she only _wanted_ one person—and despite beginning to feel that way, things between them still soured, were victim to the outside stresses of Overwatch’s collapse, until rather than feeling comfortable, Ana felt _trapped_.  It scares her, to think that she could have loved Angela, then, and still run, and terrifies her to think that it might happen again.)

But this is not complicated, not really, not if she focuses on the details, the way that, when she presses her thumb down on Angela’s clit, Angela gasps against her mouth, and rolls her hips into the touch, or the scent of Angela’s shampoo—not sweet, or heady, just _clean_ , a product selected for its ability to make the curls in her hair loosen to waves, and not for its scent—which surrounds her, as Angela’s bangs fall across both of their faces, hiding the world from Ana’s view as they cover her one good eye, or the way Angela is so in tune with what she needs, what she wants, all the ways in which Ana likes to be touched.

It feels good, to be like this, inside each other, surrounding each other, all wrapped up together.  How could this be a bad thing? 

(How could the gentle pressure of Angela’s free arm draped across her shoulder feel like it is trapping her?  Could this change, again, back from what they have now to the pain and difficulty of seven years previous?)

She is pulled from her thoughts when Angela moves her mouth next to Ana’s ear, panting into it as she whispers encouragements, praise, pleas, anything and everything that comes to her mind and which might convince Ana to let her come faster. 

Some of the things she says are gentle, _Perfect,_ and _So beautiful,_ and _You’re so good to me_ , others are demanding, _Harder,_ and _Stay there_ , and _More, please, more_ , and others are nonsense, little pleased noises of all sorts, and all of them are sufficient to drive any trepidation from Ana’s mind.

(This could not be the same voice that accused Ana of using her, of having slept with her only to ensure that she would stay with Overwatch long enough to let her guard down, and allow her technology to be exploited.)

Years ago, sex between them might have been carefully scripted, an exchange of power and little more, in which both of them kept carefully to their roles, so as not to disturb the delicate balance of their arrangement, to rip the thin veil of pretense that allowed them to carry on pretending that what they had was nothing more than the two of them fucking a few times a month—but now Angela gives as good as she gets, pulls back slightly from Ana’s fingers, shuddering, when she notices herself approaching climax just a tad too quickly, and focuses more on Ana’s pleasure for a minute or two, until she feels they are both equally aroused. 

Even though Ana knows she does not particularly like to do it—and therefore never demands it of her lover—Angela slides a finger inside Ana, and then another shortly thereafter, only because she knows it will help Ana to come faster, and make the inevitable orgasm more pleasurable when it does come.

(Once, Ana called her the most selfish person she had ever had the misfortune to encounter in her fifty-three years of living, because Angela placed her own morals over Ana’s, refused to allow her technology to be weaponized despite how useful it would be, in the right hands, how many lives would potentially be saved by killing the right people with it, because she would not take those losses on her conscience—Ana regrets saying that, now, regretted it immediately, in truth, and she wonders how the woman who is so generous a lover to her could ever have seemed so callous, where they went wrong that such a statement could even for a moment have felt true.)

When Ana moves her free hand to cup one of Angela’s breast, she can feel the hammering of her heart, and notes that it matches her own, and when she pants, Angela gasps in time, as if they were connected in more ways than the sweat sticking their skin together, or by the feeling of being inside one another.

Both of them are close now, Ana knows, can feel her own orgasm approaching as she struggles to keep her movements against Angela’s fingers steady, and knows that Angela will come soon from the quaking of her thighs on top of Ana’s own, and the way her speech has fallen to the wayside, replaced only by little noises and the occasional plea, _Yes, Ana, please_ panted out one word at a time.

(It is hard to believe, now, how distant she felt they were from one another, back then, is harder still to recall a time when, before the arguing, they were ever so close as they are in this moment.  At least Angela’s begging is familiar, but even it has changed in tone, from desperation to some other emotion Ana cannot immediately name.)

It is Angela who comes first, in the end, set off by nothing in particular that Ana can identify, but her lover does not stop, throughout it all, moving against her, and so when she catches the _I love you_ that tumbles from Angela’s mouth amongst so many other phrases, it coincides with the beginning of her own orgasm—and, to her surprise, does not negatively affect her enjoyment of the moment.

When she is finished, she allows herself to fall onto her back on the bed, but Angela does not follow suit, as she often does, stays sitting up, biting her lip nervously and looking down at Ana below.

Ana raises an eyebrow at her, before remembering that the effect is likely rather different now that she only has one good eye, and one full eyebrow—but Angela seems to understand.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Angela tells her, as if Ana had not heard her whisper the same over their call a few weeks prior, as if she had not murmured it in her native tongue before, as if Ana did not know how she felt.

“Did you not mean it?” Ana asks her, and Angela only looks more uncomfortable at the question.

“No,” says she, “Or, yes, or—or no, I did mean it?”  A pause.  “I meant it, I just—didn’t mean to say it like that, or just now, or when we were—”

“Angela,” Ana cuts her off, propping herself up on her elbows, “Calm down.  It’s fine.”

“Is it?” Angela asks her, and Ana hesitates, then.

Hesitation is a fatal mistake; she learned that when she faced Widowmaker for the first time.  In the moment Ana takes to consider the question, Angela crumbles before her.

“I’m sorry,” says she, “I can go.”

“Don’t,” Ana tells her, and Angela, already halfway off of the bed, freezes, “I’m not angry—I just need time to think about this.”

(A lie, Ana has had plenty of time, has thought about this often in the months since her return, about what she would say when this moment comes—and still, she has not decided.  Time is not what she needs, but she could not say what it is that might be of more help to her.)

Angela does not say anything, but she does not move further away, either, stays awkwardly half on and half off of the bed.

“Sit down,” she says, and Angela does, but only at the very edge of the bed, carefully avoiding touching Ana, “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

“If you’re sure,” Angela is still cautious, still guarded.

“I am,” Ana says, and considers, for a moment, lying and saying that everything is fine, that she was just surprised, and telling Angela to come lie with her—but she knows it would do them no good.  Instead, she forces herself to be honest, “I’m not, however, sure about my feelings.  I don’t know,” she pauses again, thinks about how to phrase this, settles on, “I don’t know when I’ll be able to say the same, but you feeling that way isn’t a _bad_ thing, Angela.”

(Very carefully, she avoids saying the word love entirely, not wanting to give any false hope.)

“You’re certain?” Angela asks her, “It doesn’t make you uncomfortable

“It didn’t in the moment,” Ana decides to be honest as possible, “Which was, of course, satisfying as ever,” she winks as she says that, as best as she can, and hopes that a bit of levity will ease the tension.

It does, because Angela gives a little laugh, half nervous but half amused, and relaxes her posture somewhat, saying, “Yes, well, I obviously enjoyed myself a little _too_ much.”

“Hmm,” Ana gestures her over, “Better than not enough.  Now come lie down, we’re too old to be so active after sex.”  That is mostly said in jest, given the lifestyle they lead, but Ana _is_ tired, if not from physical exertion.

“Alright,” Angela acquiesces, and she is perhaps more hesitant than usual when curling herself around Ana, but she does so—and Ana remembers, suddenly, that neither of them had time to wipe their hands off before this conversation began, and she fights the urge to remark upon it when Angela’s decidedly _sticky_ fingers come to rest on her hip.  A bit of discomfort is worth it, to be able to fall asleep in her lover’s arms, to know that despite all her shortcomings, and all that has happened in her life, she is cared for—even loved.

She fears, still, what it would mean to love Angela, fears that they might grow to hate one another, or that she might not be able to cope with being tied down, that their love would die, and she would be worse off for having allowed herself to be vulnerable, in the name of something that could not last.

(Hesitation is a fatal mistake; she learned that when Widowmaker shot her—but she lived nonetheless, and learned, then, that some things are too stubborn to kill.)

But it is all a worry for another day; for now, she is at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> scrapped ideas:  
> angela: i lov--  
> ana: [just fucking sits on her face to shut her up]
> 
> wouldve been good y/y?
> 
> title is another muna lyric (from i know a place) bc now i gotta do a whole week of them


End file.
